


I guess I'll know when I get there

by norgbelulah



Series: Set Fire to This House [10]
Category: Justified
Genre: Airplanes, Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art ropes Raylan into a "vacation" for work with the stipulation that he can bring Boyd along.  Snags and anxieties conspire to make the trip more of a nightmare than a break, but, as ever, the boys make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I guess I'll know when I get there

**Author's Note:**

> For Thornfield Girl and someotherstorm because they both asked me for some iteration of this fic. Thanks ladies! And thanks to scioscribe for beta work and encouragement, yet again. :)

Raylan should have known better than to come into Art's office on a Tuesday afternoon. Everyone else was looking shifty and ready to go home, but Raylan had a legitimate question about a paperwork thing and there wasn’t anyone else who could answer it.

Art had just got off the phone and Raylan also should have known to just shelve the question until the next morning, because he looked slightly aggravated.

Still Raylan was standing in the door and Art was waving him in, so it would have been stupid at that point to say something like, “Oh, nevermind.”

That would have just pissed him off more.

Instead, Raylan pulled the short straw from a fistful nobody had held yet.

“You wanna know who that was, Raylan?” Art asked. 

Raylan didn’t bother answering, he was going to hear anyway.

“Grady, up in DC, wants to know why this office hasn’t sent anybody to GovSec in four years.”

Raylan raised his brows. His chief in Salt Lake had gone to GovSec West a few times, and like half the people at Glynco had at one point or another, but he mostly thought conferences were things for people who were either on their way up or already there.

“Do they really care about representation from the branches?” Raylan asked. “It’s mostly the expo, right? The thing where all the contractors set up their booths and try to sell local PDs tactical shit and new cars.”

“Grady fucking does,” Art told him. “And there’s like, panels and buffets and whatever else too. But yeah, it’s a scam, mostly. Wanna go?”

Raylan didn’t answer that either. “Grady says somebody has to?”

“Yeah, and I went last time, new boss and all. You remember. It was pure bullshit too.”

“I thought you were just on vacation,” Raylan said frowning as he thought back. Art had been gone for a week and Raylan had been mad he couldn’t go down to Harlan that weekend. He’d only been in Kentucky for like a month at the time and he’d wanted Boyd whenever he could get him.

“Well, we went on up to the Poconos to see Leslie’s parents after, so, it was half a vacation.”

“You gonna let me do something like that?”

“You got the PTO for something like that?”

Raylan did not and Art knew it.

“Art, I dunno--” Raylan began, but Art didn’t let him say anything else.

"The conference itself is cheap for law enforcement--everybody wants to sell you shit for nothing at the expo--but you’ve got to stay in DC for a weekend. That's where all your money goes."

"Would I get like a per diem or something?" He was careful not to say anything like yes, yet.

"Raylan, if you did, don't you think I would be going?"

Raylan shrugged. "You said you hated it."

"I do, because I have to pay for it."

"So you're making me."

"Yes."

"Art, I'm pretty sure that's against some kind of rules--"

"Raylan, tell me right now you don't have the money, you don't want the time off, or Boyd wouldn't jump at the chance for an excuse to get out of town with you, and I'll drop it. Tell Tim to go."

"Boyd's coming?" He wouldn’t have put it past Art to have already called Boyd and primed him for this situation.

"I don't know. I figured you'd want him around if you're gonna take a vacation."

"But you said it wasn't one--"

"Well, it would be for him."

"I...can't say I don't have _something_ saved. And we did want a vacation..." Raylan felt really uncomfortable with having entirely been roped into this decision with just one sentence full of excuses he couldn't use. "Dammit, Art."

"Book it, son. And tell Boyd to skip a class or two."

"Shit."

Art called him back as he’d turned to the door, “Oh, and Raylan, of course you get a goddamn per diem, what do you think this is, the dark ages? The non-profit sector? I just wanted to see if I could get you to agree without it.” He actually winked at that and Raylan wondered if anyone would be mad if he hit his boss. They probably would. “I just don’t want to go,” he continued, “because it’s a headache and everyone there’s an asshole.”

Raylan felt comfortable rolling his eyes without being accused of insubordination, which Art pulled on him sometimes. “Great. Thanks.”

“Well, we all know you’re an asshole too, so you’ll be right at home,” he said, laughing.

Raylan just kept walking.

 

He couldn’t book the thing, like Art suggested, until he talked to Boyd. Raylan didn’t know what Art’s marriage was like, but he and his goddamn boyfriend made decisions like that together.

Of course, Boyd thought it was funny and agreed right away.

“Sure, I’ll come as your _plus one_ , baby,” Boyd said, grinning. “It’s just after finals anyway. You gonna buy me a big steak dinner on your per diem?”

Raylan snorted. “The thing only covers half of my expenses and not any of yours. You still want to come?”

Boyd shrugged and said, “I got a little bit extra helping Jerry out with that contract he scored in Winchester, so--”

Raylan shook his head, pulling Boyd closer. They were talking on the bed, where he’d found Boyd taking off his shoes after coming in from work. “I’m not gonna make you pay, asshole. It’s my work thing. I got some saved too, now we’re not driving down to Harlan so much.” He felt a little bad they hadn’t been in almost two months. He wondered if he should call Helen, just to...check in or something.

Boyd kissed him, still smiling. “How ‘bout I get the food ain’t covered by the Federal Government and you buy my plane ticket?”

“Sounds good,” Raylan said. “Hey, how come you’re back so late? I thought your class was over at like two.”

“I was at the library,” Boyd answered, his fingers rising up to pull at Raylan’s tie. “Wanna order a pizza?”

“Before or after we fool around?”

“You think we can finish ‘fore it comes?”

If he paid with his debit card over the phone, Raylan thought Lindsey could probably hold onto it for them, if they were delayed.

 

Four months later they were on a plane and Raylan was feeling nervous. They weren’t mysterious, unexplainable nerves, either. Raylan knew exactly what it was that was bugging him and he was pissed about it.

“What’s the matter with you?” Boyd asked him confusedly from the window seat, taking the bunched up Skymall catalog from Raylan’s twitchy hands. “I know you don’t hate flying this much, Raylan.”

It was the take off that got Raylan, it felt unnatural. They were just sitting at the gate now, though. He didn’t get worked up about it until the engines started roaring, and even then, it wasn’t _nerves_ , it was anxiety. It was feeling like a sardine in a can somebody launched from a rocket. Once they got into the air, Raylan was fine.

Boyd knew that because he’d told him as much when he was still flying home all the time from Salt Lake.

Raylan shook his head and Boyd gave him a look. “What?”

Raylan looked down. “I just… know some people, are gonna be at this thing. The one guy called me up, he’s a busybody, looking for people on the attendee list he knows. He wants to have drinks.”

“You gotta come out to him,” Boyd murmured. There was no question Raylan would lie. It had crossed his mind, but not as any real option. They were far past the point where he would even have wanted to. He just didn’t want to do the other thing either.

The woman seated in front of them turned around, or wanted to, then stopped herself mid-motion. She was maybe sixty or so, with a short, permed haircut. Raylan remembered from when they boarded she had a fuzzy cartoon dog on her sweater.

He almost cracked up.

Boyd glared at the back of the woman’s head, but his expression didn’t change when his eyes moved back to Raylan. “Why is this different than moving back to Kentucky? You didn’t seem nervous then, not when you told Art, or anybody else.”

Raylan didn’t know. But he answered, “Art is Art, and I was sort of nervous. Everybody else, I didn’t know, so it didn’t matter.”

“Raylan, I never heard of this guy you’re talking about before,” Boyd said, shaking his head. He still looked kind of mad and it was making Raylan bristle, defensive.

“Yeah, well you know perfectly well I didn’t tell you _everything_ about back then.” He was jutting his jaw like Boyd was gonna throw a punch or something.

“I never asked you to,” Boyd shot back, keeping his voice low. “What I’m saying is, it doesn’t even sound like you’re friends with this ‘busybody’ person you’re gonna meet up with. Why does what _he_ think matter either?”

Raylan didn’t answer. It shouldn’t.

“What about the people in Harlan?”

The woman in front of them startled again, growing stiff in her chair.

“What about them?”

“You were never nervous goin’ into town with me after everything came out. You weren’t nervous with Daddy, or even Helen--”

“Nervous and mad are different, Boyd,” Raylan injected an incredibly fake tone of patience into his voice. 

“Oh really?” he spat.

“Why are you pissed about this?” Raylan growled. “I’m not saying I ain’t gonna do it. I just…” He didn’t finish, Boyd was looking out the window at the asphalt rolling by while they taxied.

“Why did you bring me if it’s just gonna make things tough for you?”

“I was gonna have to come out to him anyway,” Raylan said, raising his voice enough that a few other people were glancing their way now. He glared their eyes down into their laps.

Boyd was looking at him with wide eyes, still frowning like he didn’t want to let go of his anger. Which was goddamn confusing to Raylan. He still didn’t know why he was mad.

“Would you have, if I wasn’t here?”

Raylan gave him a look like he was crazy. “Of course.” He raised a hand to Boyd’s face. “He’s a busybody, darlin’, and I don’t lie about you.”

Boyd’s frown was closer to a pout than it ever got and he said, “You never asked me if I was nervous, starting school and everything, talking about you.”

Raylan frowned. It had never occurred to him that Boyd would be. Boyd was...Boyd. “Were you?” 

He remembered Boyd told him he had some trouble with a couple people, every once in a while, but it was always resolved one way or another. Boyd got friends and he was smart. He told people off or he ignored them. Raylan did the same, though it was even rarer these days than it had ever been--Raylan’s reputation preceded him often enough almost nobody asked anymore, or gave him shit he couldn’t ignore.

Boyd rubbed his face. “Maybe a little.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Boyd huffed now, laughing at himself. “Baby, I’m sorry. This is stupid. I didn’t want you to know. And now I’m mad ‘cause you didn’t. That makes no goddamn sense at all.”

“Well, I was already mad at myself for being nervous so--”

“I just added insult to injury?” Boyd’s smile looked real nice in the dimmed light of the plane, getting ready for take off now. Raylan’s stomach dropped.

“No, I meant--well, I guess that doesn’t really make us even then, now does it?” 

Boyd grabbed his hand, which was gripping the armrest pretty hard. “I don’t think we have to be, baby,” he murmured.

 

Boyd spent the five-hour flight reading a book, Cold Mountain, because he refused to let them watch the movie until he’d read it. Raylan wasn’t even that concerned. He just thought it might be a nice change from that Western kick they’d got on. Boyd had argued a Civil War movie didn’t really seem that different from a Western, but he was reading it anyway.

Raylan watched the little TV on the back of the seat for a while, got bored with the shitty shows they had on there for free, and switched on the radio in the seat. Boyd shook him awake as the plane was landing.

When he stood up to pull the luggage down, feeling groggy and out of sorts, the woman in the fuzzy sweater stood up too and gave him a funny look.

He turned his eyes to the ceiling, mentally preparing himself, until she said, “Raylan Givens, I thought that might be you.”

Raylan turned to her, just as he was taking his hat out of the luggage compartment, and her eyes got sort of big, though she looked no less like she was certain she knew him. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t place it until Boyd said, hesitantly, “Ms. Keel?”

“Oh, sh--” he stopped himself from swearing and she grinned almost madly at him.

“That’s right, boy, you watch your tongue now.” In Kindergarten, she’d put him in the corner almost weekly for swearing up a storm, trying to be tough like his daddy. “I’m Mrs. Carlton these days, and for a long time. I met a man at a clogging dance in London of all places. We moved to Somerset, never looked back from Harlan.”

Raylan set his hat on his head and handed her her bag. “Good for you,” he told her.

She was grinning from ear to ear. “My goodness,” she nearly whistled. “Raylan Givens and Boyd Crowder. I knew you boys were destined to kill or screw each other, pardon, since the day you walked into my classroom.”

Boyd snorted and tried to hide it, but Raylan just grinned right back. “What made you think a thing like that?”

“That you’re screwin’ or that you would?”

“I think half the plane heard that at least,” Boyd said congenially, with his hand rubbing slow across Raylan’s back, a mite possessively, as they waited for the plane to empty.

Ms. Keel marked it and replied, “I think it might have been how you were always trying to impress each other all the time, talking shit, taking each other’s toys, but you were always smiling about it. It was real cute.”

Raylan thought back, trying to remember. Kindergarten was still when their daddies were partners. He and Boyd would play all the time.

“Oh, and the one time you,” she poked at Raylan’s arm--he really didn’t remember her being so funny, “caught him kissing the little Greevey girl at recess. Oh, you cried so hard. Said your tummy hurt then you socked him in the nose after naptime.”

“Raylan,” Boyd said, breathless from silent laughter. “Really?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember that at all.”

She beamed at them. “And look at you now! What are you, some kind of country singer?”

Boyd actually cackled at that.

“Lord, no,” Raylan protested. “I’m a U.S. Marshal.”

“Well, praise the Lord, because I remember your voice wasn’t anything to write home about.”

Raylan didn’t defend himself by reminding her he was five.

“Can’t blame a person, you go around wearing a hat like that, though,” she said and Boyd murmured, “She got you on that one, baby.” 

“What are you in school for then, Mr. Crowder?” she asked like she was affronted Boyd thought Raylan was going to be the only one getting her attention.

“Contracting,” he said immediately, like it was an answer on a test.

“What did you do before that?” she asked, a little hushed, almost like she already knew. 

“This and that,” he answered, eyes flicking to Raylan. “Waited for him to come home.”

“He fixed my daddy’s house up too, after he passed,” Raylan said, defensively. “It’s real nice, Ms. Keel.” For some reason, and in the most basic terms, he didn’t want her to think Boyd was bad.

“I’m sure it is, honey,” she said patting his arm. The line in front of them was moving a little faster now. “Listen boys, I am so glad I saw you here, so glad--you know, I thought for sure you were gonna kill each other over it when you were old enough to understand what was between you, or for a million other reasons, your daddies included--but I am so, glad, boys, that you didn’t. This place, everywhere, and your hometown especially, can be full of bigots,” she glared pointedly at a younger man across the aisle, who looked down, not quite sheepishly, “but I’m proud of you for not letting ‘em get you down. So, don’t start now, either.”

“We won’t, Ms. Keel,” Boyd said, taking her hand. She grabbed it hard, then turned to pull her suitcase with her down the aisle.

When they all emerged from the gate, she gave them each a big hug and dashed away tears in her eyes.

“Teaching in Harlan was the toughest job of my career,” she said. “Let me tell you, it scored me a bunch of points in the suburban castle I moved to, but I never forgot you kids. It was so lovely to see you again.”

They echoed her sentiments and each other, and she smiled when they used the same words. “Peas in a pod, I told the first grade teachers, when you left my classroom. They didn’t believe me, you fought so much.”

She was meeting her daughter outside of the terminal and took a phone call from her as she walked away, waving. They watched her for a minute, slightly slack-jawed, then Boyd turned to him and said, “Well, I don’t know about you, Raylan, but I am in dire need of a drink.”

 

The conference went from a Monday to a Wednesday and they had come in late in the evening on a Sunday. They decided to get a drink in the hotel bar after they checked in. It was a place within the DC limits but at least a fifteen minute metro ride, as far as Raylan could tell via the map, to the convention center where GovSec was being held.

The guy who checked them in was a skinny sort of kid, with high cheekbones, whose coat was a size too big for him. He might have been wearing eyeliner or something, because his eyes looked big and they were brown and they caught Raylan’s every time he looked up from his computer.

“Okay, here’s your room key and wifi password and here’s the number for room service, should you need _anything_ at all,” he said in a soft tone, handing Raylan the shit, pointing momentarily to the bottom portion of the brochure. His eyes lifted to Raylan’s hat and then back to meet his again, before he added, “Have a wonderful stay.”

In the elevator, Boyd started laughing.

“What?” Raylan grumbled tiredly.

“That boy was flirting with you,” he said.

Raylan glared at him then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, he wasn’t real good at it, I guess,” Boyd replied, tilting his head a little to the side against the wall of the elevator. “But he was trying so hard.”

Raylan shook his head again. “I think he was just trying to get a good tip.”

“You bet he was,” Boyd snorted and Raylan rolled his eyes. It was sort of funny how juvenile his boy’s sense of humor could get when he was exhausted.

He remembered just a week ago how long he’d laughed at some local car commercial down at the bar, right after his last final and several beers, which was just some dude in a bigger hat than Raylan’s slapping some other dude over high interest rates. It was bizarre.

The hotel room wasn't crazy big, but it had a king bed and a mini bar. Raylan investigated it, noting the fairly nice selection of tiny bottles of booze.

"You think it'll be more or less expensive to break one of these open instead of going downstairs for a drink?" he asked Boyd, who'd pitched face first into the mattress.

"More," Boyd groaned. "Do it anyway."

Raylan frowned. "I saw a liquor store up the street. I'll just go get something--"

"No, don't do that. I'll just fall asleep waiting on you," Boyd mumbled, turning to him, squinting now in the dim light of the room.

"You can, darlin'. It's late. We'll get plenty of drinks tomorrow." Tomorrow was when he was meeting Smithy, the busybody from Salt Lake after the opening stuff for this convention. Boyd said he planned to walk around the Capitol, see some museums or the Library of Congress, and then meet up with Raylan for those drinks, if he wanted.

Raylan did want, actually, and he was glad Boyd had offered. It would be easier, maybe, if he was there.

Boyd just curled up around himself on top of the mattress and groaned again. Raylan smiled. He wasn't quite as tired as Boyd, but he figured that was because he'd slept so much on the plane.

He decided he would unpack their stuff a little bit, make sure his suit wouldn't wrinkle in the suitcase, and get his shit organized for the morning, then rouse his boy enough to make sure he got under the covers at least.

 

The conference was pretty much bullshit. At least for a Marshal.

Raylan was sure the countless local and state PD personnel he saw in the convention center and on the floor of the expo got their money and time’s worth coming to a thing like this, and he also supposed that certain Federal branches, who worked more closely in conjunction with those personnel--maybe in larger cities than Lexington--would find the networking aspect of it useful. But Raylan didn’t need to network.

He wasn’t gunning for a position that would take him away from Harlan or Kentucky--which would have been ludicrous to him a decade ago. He was happy where he was and he didn’t see a need for anybody but Art in his own office to know or care what the hell was going on anywhere else--except maybe Louisville, but those guys were all assholes anyway.

He really hoped nobody from Louisville was at this thing.

He listened to the opening remarks though, and wandered around the floor, and in and out of a few panel discussions. He hadn’t sprung for any of the workshops, which they charged you like two hundred more dollars to attend, so he was beginning to think the whole deal was a bust--until he pretty much ran right into Jim Ferzinsky from San Antonio on the expo floor.

“Givens, hey,” Jim said, shoving a bunch of papers under his arm in order to take Raylan’s hand. “How the hell are you?”

Raylan had consulted with Jim a few times before he left Salt Lake, when they’d needed some extra hands on border jumpers in Texas. Raylan hadn’t really been posted there, but he’d been up and back more times than he could count on one hand.

Jim was a good guy, one Raylan had liked a great deal, but hadn’t thought once about in nearly ten years. 

“Good,” Raylan told him, meaning it in a way that was vaguely surreal. “I’m really good, Jim. It’s great to see you.”

“You too. Hey, I gotta go to one of these workshops in a minute.” Raylan made a face and Jim laughed, “Well, the old man kind of insists we do these days. At least all the old timers like you and me. Where are you at now, by the way?”

“Eastern Kentucky,” Raylan said. “Art Mullen roped me into this, said I didn’t actually have to do anything but show up. So here I am.”

“Well, listen, you wanna catch up later? Eastern Kentucky makes me think you’ve got a story, I remember you said you’re from there.” Jim was a connoisseur of stories. Raylan sort of couldn’t wait to tell him.

“Well, I’m getting drinks with Larry Smith from Salt Lake at five.”

Jim winced. “Oh, that guy. How’d he get his hooks into you already?” Raylan shrugged. “Well, this shit isn’t over until six anyway. How about I come rescue you from him then?”

Raylan grinned. “Sure. We’re gonna be at that Matchbox place in Chinatown. Don’t ask me anything about it, it was his choice.” He paused, and forced the words out of his mouth. He thought it might be easier this way. “And my boyfriend’s going to be there.”

Jim blinked. “Your boyfriend?” he asked, like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

“Yeah.”

Jim gave him a funny look, then he grinned again as he turned away. “Now I _know_ you’ve got a story.”

Raylan wandered around the floor a little longer, chatted with some really earnest salespeople, hocking their fancy little gadgets and over-priced wares. They would always lose interest when Raylan finally told them he was a Marshal. Guys like him had absolutely no say in tech acquisitions. The government had billion dollar contracts for shit like that. He was really just killing time.

Finally, he gave up and called Boyd, who said, he should come meet him at the National Portrait Gallery, which wasn’t a far walk.

Raylan had been to DC previously. Most marshals made it there for one reason or another at some point in their career, but it had been a while for Raylan and he didn’t remember it being so nice. Maybe that was because it had been the summer, and the oppressive heat and humidity felt worse even than Georgia.

Now, it was springtime and, despite it being somewhat overcast, the breeze was nice and there were blossoms on the trees around the public buildings.

He met Boyd in the Hall of Presidents at the Gallery and listened as he told him things he read off the wall next to the portraits and then elaborated on from whatever knowledge he’d picked up from reading so goddamn much.

Boyd talked a lot about Andrew Jackson and also, surprisingly, about James K. Polk, who he was real excited about having accomplished everything he set out to do in one term and then died three months out of office.

“His work was finished, baby,” Boyd said, wide-eyed, touching him lightly on the elbow as if Raylan’s attention wasn’t already on the painting. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Raylan smiled and wanted to kiss him, but felt weird about it in front of all these tourists and the eyes of the past leaders of the free world and everything. Instead he said, “I told Jim Ferzinsky he could catch up with me and Smithy at that bar. Told him you would be there, too.”

Boyd looked away from the wall and over at Raylan, eyes clearing of the past. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I said, ‘my boyfriend will be there.’”

Boyd beamed. Raylan touched his hand. “No big deal, huh?”

Raylan shook his head. “No big deal.”

 

The bar they were meeting Smithy at was called Matchbox and it was pretty upscale, though it had a nice ambiance that Raylan wasn’t planning on telling anybody that he noticed. Maybe it had to do with the open fire open that was visible behind the bar.

Boyd and Raylan got there early, early enough the place was nearly dead. They waited until five on the dot to order drinks so they could get the Happy Hour prices--five dollar cocktails and half off food.

Smithy strolled in a couple minutes later and spotted Raylan by his hat from the door. Raylan remembered him as a somewhat thinner man, though he’d always been a big, broad-shouldered guy. Raylan thought he used to boast about lifting weights.

Smithy was a talker, as were a lot of guys in law enforcement. But Smithy always talked in a way that made you think he was telling you shit for other reasons than he just liked to hear his own voice. He was big on making himself look good, look funny, look professional. He always wanted to move up, made no secret about it, and yet all his attempts to do so must have been thwarted, because when he called Raylan up, he’d left a message and when Raylan had forced himself to call him back, he’d answered the phone with just the same title he’d had a decade before.

“Raylan Givens,” he said in greeting, holding out his hand well in advance of actually reaching Raylan. “You look good, son.”

Smithy was about ten years older than Raylan and probably nearing retirement. 

He was the kind of guy that got ahead in his heyday, clear, blue eyes, non-discriminate blonde-ish hair cut, short but not military short, smooth-talker, firm-handshake. More affable than smart, he was probably once a moderate who went hard-line Republican when the world got too scary for him. Never had it too hard, never got the success he thought he deserved.

He was always nice to Raylan, especially when he was just starting out in Salt Lake, but there had always been an undercurrent to his friendship, like he’d wanted the chief there to know about it, like he wanted to make sure everyone saw the unofficial leadership role he was taking on.

Raylan was glad the office in Lexington wasn’t big enough for anybody to try and pull shit like that. It grated on him, now more than it had when he was young, and still searching for older guys in the force to look up to--not that he would have ever admitted that’s what he was doing, especially at the time.

“Hey Smithy,” Raylan returned, using the nickname the man always insisted on. “Right back at you.” Raylan sort of winced at that. It sounded nothing like him and he felt Boyd shift at his back. Also, the guy didn’t really look that good. “What brings you to this side of the world?”

“Oh, West was shit this year and I wanted to see what was going on in parts far removed,” Smithy said winking. 

Raylan made himself smile, though it was a challenge, since he was remembering now what else about this guy grated on him, and should have much more when they first met. He made everyone around him play to his fiddle, and not in a way where they did what he wanted, like Boyd could do, but in a way where they talked like him, put on his show right along with him, even though they didn’t want to.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked, looking over at Boyd, who was still seated. “Another casualty of GovSec, huh? You look more like a feeb to me than a deputy, or wait,” he said, putting a hand to his head like Johnny Carson as Carnac the Magnificent, “ATF? No, you’re not a Statie, are you?”

Boyd chuckled humorlessly. “Oh, no,” he replied and said nothing more.

“Well--”

“Smithy, hold on,” Raylan could tell this was going to go on for a while if he didn’t just say it. “This is Boyd Crowder. He’s my boyfriend. He’s in town with me for the conference.” 

Raylan lost the death grip he had on his smile as soon as Smithy started laughing.

He laughed a lot. And he clapped Raylan on the back a couple times. Shivers of loathing ran down his spine at the man’s touch and Boyd shifted again behind him.

Raylan turned a bit and murmured under his breath, “I am so sorry about this, darlin’.”

Boyd didn’t respond, his eyes were stuck on the laughing man. He didn’t exactly look upset, but he wasn’t amused either.

“Good one, Ray,” Smithy said and Boyd glanced at him, that had started back when he didn’t think he could tell people what he preferred to be called. “Oh man, your boyfriend,” he repeated like it was the best joke he’d heard all year.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, buddy,” Raylan tried to make it sound fine. “I’m not kidding. Boyd is my boyfriend, has been for more than a decade.” That was if they were counting the years they’d been hooking up and not talking much about it, these days, Raylan was.

At that, Smithy laughed even harder. “Oh yeah, your secret boyfriend from way back in Salt Lake,” he crowed. 

Raylan frowned. “No, we know each other from home. Remember when my father died? And I just kept flying on back to Kentucky every couple months? I told everybody it was estate stuff. Really, I was screwing my secret boyfriend, Boyd.” He put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder, and his boy leaned right into it, staring Smithy down, like he was daring him to laugh again.

But Smithy wasn’t looking at him, and he was still laughing, breathless, like he wasn’t getting enough exercise. “You guys come up with that while you were waiting on me? Now, come on,” he said, looking between them now, “What branch are you? Maybe you’re CIA with that poker face. Is your clearance level above my pay grade or something? I didn’t think anybody made friends with spooks, let alone prickly Raylan Givens.”

Raylan supposed he was prickly back then, when he was worried someone was gonna ask one too many times why he kept flying back so much, why he wasn’t really looking at girls anymore when he went out with the guys. Even he hadn’t figured that one out yet.

Boyd leaned forward in his seat then, so his face was even with where Raylan was standing next to his own bar stool.

“Boyd,” Raylan said softly.

“Just what about this story, Mr. Smith,” he asked, “makes it so unbelievable to you?”

Smithy was slowly sobering, but Boyd didn’t give him a chance to answer. 

“I’ve known Raylan Givens all my life,” he said. “We just met our kindergarten teacher on the plane coming here, actually, and she remembered what great friends we were then, despite the fact that we ourselves did not. We worked in the mine together when we were nineteen. Didn’t Raylan tell you he was a miner when he was young? He tells almost everybody eventually. I fell in love with him there, down in the hole. When he left Harlan, I thought he’d ripped out my heart. I joined the army and when I came home four years later I spent nine months waging a war against the federal government with my white brothers in arms. I even got myself inked for them, a big black swastika tattoo, would you like to see it?”

Smithy was gaping at him.

“Is that the only thing, gonna make you understand this man right here just risked a great deal, personally and professionally, by coming out to you and you just _laughed in his fucking face_?” 

Raylan stepped between them then and waved the bartender over. “I’d like two glasses Bulleit bourbon, neat, please. What do you want, Smithy?”

Smithy blinked confusedly for a second then croaked, “A Bud.”

Boyd turned away after that, like he wasn’t even worth the effort. Raylan put his hand on his shoulder, which was tense, right near the back of his neck.

The restaurant was more full now, with people coming in every minute or so. Raylan happened to look up in the next moment of drawn out silence and see Jim coming through the door. He held back a sigh of relief. Coming to the rescue indeed.

“Raylan, hey,” Jim said, clapping him on the shoulder, a lot more gently than Smithy had. “Smith, it’s been years.” Smith looked a little shell-shocked, but took Jim’s hand gamely. “And you must be Raylan’s boyfriend, good to meet you. I’m Jim Ferzinsky. I don’t think Raylan mentioned your name.”

Boyd smiled, easy and wide, like none of that other shit had even happened. “Boyd Crowder. Likewise, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.

Jim ordered a scotch and stood where Smithy had been, as the other man had sat down next to Raylan. “Now, which one of you boys wants to tell me what I expect to be a fascinating story about how you two go together?”

Smithy was clutching pretty tight at his beer. “They were friends since grade school. Used to mine together. Boyd was a white supremacist. I guess he isn’t anymore.”

“Smith, are you okay?” Jim asked, eyeing him a little hard. “You want a water instead of that piss?” He turned to Boyd when Smithy didn’t answer. “White supremacy, huh? How’d that work out for you?”

“Not especially well,” Boyd answered, shrugging. “I was in and out, really. The follies of youth. And I exaggerated with Deputy Smith here, he was being an asshole to Raylan.”

“Oh, that’s just his way. I see that you set him straight. He’ll take a minute to get his mojo back, then maybe we’ll knock him down another peg and he’ll be all right.”

“It’s just, you don’t look--”

Jim rolled his eyes, interrupting, “Smith, do you even know any gay people? Not in Salt Lake, in your kind of circles, I’d imagine. So quit thinking you know everything and listen to Givens’ story, Jesus.”

Smithy just took another swig of his beer. Raylan downed his own drink and ordered another one, thanking the Lord for that government per diem and reliable metropolitan public transport.

“Well,” Boyd said. “I don’t know about digging all through Raylan’s and my relationship, but I could see my way to spinning you a pretty good tale, Deputy--”

“Jim, please,” he said smiling. “And, if I thought Raylan was a pretty good man with a story, I don’t know what to think of you.”

“How about the time I asked Raylan to move out of his motel room in Lexington and he surprised me with a second story apartment above a bar?” 

Boyd bumped shoulders with Raylan, who protested, “You love that place! Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

“Well, the story’s more about _how_ you found out about the place, baby,” Boyd said. “Now, you gotta help me when I mess up, okay?”

Jim’s eyes were practically dancing. “I can’t fucking wait,” he said.

 

The next day passed in a blur of badges and glazed over eyes and Julia Child’s kitchen in the Smithsonian during lunch. They planned to have dinner at a nice place Boyd heard about from the concierge at the hotel.

Raylan was running a bit late, having decided to sit in on a panel on weapons training, just to have something to do. The thing had of course run long and Raylan had to take the metro during peak times because he still didn’t want to spring for a cab--not when they were about to spend most of his per diem on fifty-dollar surf and turf.

Boyd sent a text, which came through when the train was stopped at one of the station, that he’d spoken to the maitre d’, who was able to push the reservation back a half hour. When Raylan got to the restaurant, which was so much more fancy than any Raylan could remember he and Boyd having gone to before it was frankly ridiculous, he found Boyd at the bar, nursing a cocktail of some kind and speaking to a man in a slim-cut suit.

Everything about the man, in fact, was slim, but not in the way Boyd was--with his dark, almost-black, boot-cut jeans and his buttoned up white shirt, over which he was wearing a navy blue vest. Boyd’s version of slim was warm and wiry. This man he was talking to was slim like a cold steel pole, taller than Raylan, and his hair was grey--no, silver, despite his relative youth--and cut into something that looked fairly fashionable, as far as Raylan could tell. 

His suit, slim as well, was a light grey, which only made his piercing blue eyes and weird hair more remarkable. The shirt he was wearing was a dark, teal-like blue, and his pocket square and tie were a complimentary green. He was looking very intently at Boyd, whose face Raylan couldn’t see. He was smiling, softly. 

Raylan realized he was standing in the doorway to the bar side of the restaurant and glowering. The man caught his eye, then, and touched Boyd’s elbow. Raylan moved forward, fast, as Boyd turned around.

“Baby, hey,” Boyd said, like nothing was up. His hand brushed at Raylan’s waist as he stepped close and came to rest by hooking his fingers into Raylan’s coat pocket. Raylan saw the slim man note this and was pretty sure Boyd hadn’t told him he was attached, or taken, or whatever it was people said when someone was looking at them like they wanted to jump them, like this guy totally was just a second ago. “This is Jason. He’s from Cold Mountain,” Boyd continued, tapping the book he must have brought with him to read while he waited. “He don’t have an accent though because he went to school in Boston.”

“Cambridge,” Jason corrects with a smile that was self-deprecating enough you could tell he didn’t really care all that much, unless he was trying to get into somebody’s goddamn pants. “And, really, I’m from Asheville. That place is crunchy enough the accent slips all the time.”

Boyd looks back at Raylan, grinning, “We’re practically neighbors.”

Raylan rolled his eyes.

“We didn’t get to why you’re in DC,” Jason said then, clearly curious now and not at all pissed he wasn’t going to get to take Boyd home. Raylan supposed he should be civil, just on account of that alone.

“Raylan’s here for a conference. Oh, Jason, this is Raylan Givens, my boyfriend.”

Raylan took his outstretched hand. 

“Jason Brinkely. GoveSec, is it?” He seemed excited by something about that.

“Yeah. Am I that easy to pin down?” Raylan asked.

“Well, you still got the conference badge on you, baby,” Boyd pointed out.

Raylan sighed and pulled the lanyard off his neck. He’d forgotten it was there.

“So what branch are you?”

“U.S. Marshals.” 

Boyd was beaming at him, for some reason. The whole conversation was turning a little surreal.

Jason was leaning forward now, very interested. “And you’re out, right? About how many queers are there your age in Federal law enforcement, do you think?” he asked. 

At their mirrored expressions of surprise and consternation, Jason held up his hands. “Woah, sorry. That was...uh, uncouth of me.” He raised his glass, half-empty. “This is my second one of these and I totally skipped lunch. I really am sorry. I told Boyd already, I work for the Log Cabin Republicans--”

Raylan was glowering again. “We’re not--”

“No, no, I mean. I didn’t think you would be. I’m just really interested in representation. A lot of LGBTQ data goes unreported, especially in the South and--”

Raylan, having completely lost all his patience with this guy, turned to Boyd, effectively cutting him off, by saying, “Darlin’, we already pushed the reservation back a half hour.” He looked back at the slim lawyer and added, “I really couldn’t say about what you’re asking me. Did you pester him about gays in the construction business, or the goddamn mine?”

Jason’s eyes were wide and he suddenly looked a lot younger than he had when Raylan first walked in. “We hadn’t gotten that far. Look, I know I pretty much just fucked this whole thing for myself, and that was _after_ I realized he was taken,” Jason, jerked his thumb in Boyd’s direction. “But let me give you my card. Information about professionals such as yourself is really scarce, and I wouldn't be asking on behalf of my employers, who I’m sure you hate very much.”

“Just take it,” Boyd said softly, standing and looking mildly pissed but sort of apologetic at Jason all at the same time. “You’re right, Raylan, they’re gonna give the table away if we don’t head over there now.” He shook Jason’s hand. “It was a pleasure,” he said, meaning it for some reason. Raylan just turned away, sliding the slim white card into his pocket.

When they got to the table, Raylan found himself grumbling, still reeling a bit, “What were you talking to Anderson Cooper over there for anyway?”

Boyd shrugged, looking down, but sounding defensive. “I was being polite. He asked how I liked the book.”

Raylan opened up the menu the maitre d’ had handed him. “Oh, so it didn’t have anything to do with those piercing blue eyes and silver-fox hair, huh?” He wasn’t sure how light he was keeping his tone--he thought maybe it wasn’t light at all.

Boyd looked up at him sharply, not angry, almost worried, or guilty. “You aren’t mad about this, are you?”

Raylan met his eyes, straight on. “No,” he said, blowing out a breath, letting it go. He tried for a smile and it mostly worked out. “You gotta admit, that was a little weird, right? Like, really weird.”

“I think he just ain’t used to talking to people like us, Raylan,” Boyd said mildly.

“And who are people like us?” Raylan asked, feeling defensive again.

Boyd gave him a look and then a small smile. “People who ain’t like him. He was younger than he looked.”

Raylan smirked at him. “So you think I should let my hair go gray when the time comes?” he asked.

“Raylan, I don’t know what time you think is coming, I seen you wiping at your temples in the mirror like you got some flour in your hair or something,” Boyd shot back, grinning. He flicked his eyes down to the menu and admits, “But yes.”

“You want to call me Anderson sometimes, in bed?” Raylan asked, slyly.

“Shut the hell up, asshole. He came up to me,” Boyd said, rolling his eyes. 

Raylan thought he heard some kind of pride in his voice, but let it lie, instead saying, “Come on, darlin’, let’s spend a bunch of money and have a really good time.”

Boyd took his hand. 

 

They actually had a really great time, spent a shit ton of money, especially on booze and dessert, and were too full and drunk to fuck before crashing. Boyd woke up with a soft smile on his face, which Raylan could only half see due to a mild, but insistent hangover.

Boyd sucked him off, eyes wide and sweet on Raylan’s face, which made him feel a little better and a lot grateful before he headed back to the convention center for the conference’s closing remarks. After which, carrying their bags and everything, they took a whirlwind tour of the monuments and memorials on their way out of the city, hopping a taxi to Jefferson’s because it was the farthest away, and Boyd’s favorite apparently.

“How can this one be your favorite if you’ve never been to any of them before, darlin’?” Raylan asked him, settling down in the back seat of the cab.

“I think it’s the prettiest one,” he answered and Raylan gave him a look. His expression was one of complete sincerity. “Maybe I’ll change my mind when we get there, though.”

They were standing inside the building, in front of the statue of Jefferson, when Boyd said, “Yeah, I think this one is my favorite. I like that he’s standing. It seems more presidential. Lincoln looks like he’s on a throne.”

Raylan smiled.

“Our presidents shouldn’t be men who sit, Raylan,” Boyd said, very seriously. “Unless, of course, you’re talking about FDR.”

“Oh, of course,” Raylan replied and bumped his shoulder as they stood before the statue.

They got Popeye’s in the airport because Raylan said he wanted something Southern and terrible. They had to walk twenty-five gates away from their own to get it, but they had the time to kill and not much luggage. When they got back to their own gate, they found their plane was delayed.

“Repairs,” the woman at the desk said, apologetically, though slightly hurried. “We should be good to go in an hour or so.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to fly on a broken plane, I guess,” Raylan murmured.

He turned to Boyd to ask what he thought they should do with the time and saw that he was still looking at the woman, whose name tag said Shirley. “Shirley, you might be surprised to hear, I don’t believe I’ve ever been grounded in my life. My daddy just used to whup us with a paddle.”

Shirley blinked at him, as she reached for her phone. She replied, “Sir, you haven’t been grounded yet. As I said, the flight’s delayed.”

Raylan let out a bark of laughter and pulled Boyd away. “She didn’t get your stupid joke,” he said, still laughing, as he steered Boyd to the nearest bar. One of those beer-branded places that served shitty food, but had a decent tap. This one was owned by Sam Adams. 

“It was funny enough,” Boyd protested.

Raylan thought he must be real tired to think that, but he didn’t say anything. He ordered them two of the seasonal and some fries. “The per diem’s done with, darlin’, but this one’s on me, okay?”

Boyd grinned at him. “What’d I do to deserve this special treatment?”

Raylan just shook his head.

They waited in the airport for another three hours, checking back in every once in a while with Shirley, who finally got her sense of humor back on the third time they asked, saying, “And please, don’t call me Shirley,” with a wink to their surprised guffaws. 

Boyd finished his book, calling it excellent, and purchased another from the newsstand, some thriller off the Bestseller list. Raylan, finally bored enough, picked up Cold Mountain.

On their fourth visit to the information desk, Shirley told them with sincere apologies that the plane was grounded--adding another wink to Boyd--indefinitely and that they’d receive a hotel voucher and seats on another flight scheduled for the morning.

“Okay,” Raylan said as they walked away from the desk. Boyd nodded. There wasn’t really much to say. Neither of them wanted to complain, there wasn’t anything to be done but find the hotel and go to bed.

It was easy enough to find the shuttle near the baggage claim. The ride there only took about ten minutes, highway driving the whole time. There seemed to be a bunch of familiar faces from the gate on their shuttle and at the reception desk when they arrived at the place--a business traveler hotel chain, but one that had a pool, so that was nice.

“Pool’s open late,” Boyd told him after he finished organizing the voucher thing at the check-in desk, which was in his opinion needlessly complicated. 

Raylan raised his brows. He thought Boyd might be tired and want to go right to sleep, but he’d had a coffee at the same time Raylan had, when they thought they were going to get on their flight around midnight. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, smiling when the climbed onto the elevator.

The room they got was really nice for one of these chains, with a King bed and a jacuzzi-style bathtub. He gave Boyd a look over his shoulder as he was setting out their toiletry bag. “After?” he asked, raising his brows in a different way entirely.

Boyd smiled. “Sure,” he said. “You think we can both fit in there?” It was one of the square kind, or sort of square that rounded out at one side and had a bench in it, like a booth at a restaurant. 

“I think I really want to try and see,” Raylan answered and Boyd laughed. “They gave us vouchers for dinner at that asian place downstairs, drinks too.”

“Well, we’d be dumb to pass that up, wouldn’t we?” Boyd replied, walking out into the room. “I wish I had another change of clothes, ‘specailly if we’re gonna swim.”

“I think we can do laundry if you really want to,” Raylan said.

“I’d rather just eat the free food and worry about laundry when we get back, baby,” he said. “I was just complaining.”

Raylan laughed softly and said, “Good, I’m surprised it took us this long to start.”

They split a sushi roll and some soup, because neither of them were actually very hungry and the voucher wasn’t for very much money, then headed over to the pool.

The hours weren’t listed on the door, and Raylan wondered if they just kept the place open all the time, for night owls and people who wake up early.

Raylan’s swim suit was brand new, even though Boyd bought it for him years before when they’d been talking about going on a real vacation together, or like, just a weekend away. Somehow, it had never happened, so Raylan never used it. Boyd swam sometimes at the gym at his school, so his was faded from too much chlorine and didn’t stick out from his legs like a stiff plastic bag, like Raylan’s.

They took towels from the changing room in with them and slipped into the water without speaking.

The place was dead, the only sounds were the soft lap of the water against the sides of the pool and the steady drip of faucets in the showers next to the changing rooms. The place was dark too, made moodier by the silence and the blue reflection of the dimmed lights from the water all over the ceiling and walls. The shadows and the light moved with the water, making everything seem kind of dreamy, unreal.

Raylan wasn’t willing to break the silence, and Boyd didn’t seem to be either, so they swam quietly and didn’t speak for a long time. After a while, Raylan leaned up against the side of the pool, facing inward and not out, letting his arms rest on the edge and his legs float out in front of him.

He and Boyd swam in the summertime in the fishing hole in Harlan, but this was different, clean and strange. He wondered if it felt so weird because it wasn’t outside, under the stars, with the cicadas singing to them from the trees.

Boyd swam up to him, stretching out his arms to grab at the edge of the pool on either side of Raylan’s shoulders. He pressed up against Raylan’s legs, resting, until he pushed them down nearer the wall.

“That never happened to me before,” he said quietly.

It only took a moment for Raylan to realize he meant the man at the bar. 

“I’m sorry if I was weird about it,” Raylan told him, hooking his legs up onto Boyd’s hips.

“You weren’t that weird,” Boyd said, shaking him head. “I knew what he was up to. I could have said something right away, but I,” he paused, frowning, not like he was angry or upset, just a little puzzled, “I think I wanted to see what it was like.”

“Getting picked up in a bar?”

Boyd smiled. “I guess. I was so surprised I drew his attention. You’ll remember I said that never happened to me before.”

“Not even with women?” Raylan asked, somewhat surprised.

Boyd swatted his arm. “Not everyone is graced with your masculine beauty, Raylan Givens,” he sniffed.

Raylan pulled him in tighter. “You’re all right,” he said, nuzzling up to Boyd’s wet neck. The chlorine smell, almost overpowering, wasn’t really a turn on, but Raylan was prepared to ignore it. “That’s what I meant.”

Boyd huffed like he didn’t believe him.

“Did you think about going home with him?” Raylan asked, suddenly curious.

Boyd pulled away, his brows drawn down hard. “ _No_.”

“I mean, not in a way that you’d do it. Jesus,” Raylan said quick, pulling him right back. “But like, did you think about it. What it would be like?”

Boyd gave him a look like he wasn’t sure why he was asking. “Yeah. I mean...yeah. He was cute, right?”

Raylan smiled at Boyd’s discomfort, understanding it completely. They never talk about this shit. “If you like Anderson Cooper, I guess.”

Boyd splashed him. “I know that you do, asshole.” Raylan pulled him close again, closer even, and kissed him, mouth open and warm. Boyd smiled into his lips and said, “You know what else I thought about, Raylan?” 

Raylan’s cock gave a twitch at that and they both looked at each other a little wide-eyed as Raylan’s breath grew heavier and he flushed up to his ears. “What?” he asked breathlessly, mouthing now behind Boyd’s ear.

There was a crack in Boyd’s voice, like he almost didn’t say it, but went ahead anyway, “How you’d cry and sock me in the nose if I did.”

Raylan groaned and pulled Boyd all the way up onto his hips, their cocks grinding together. Boyd’s laugh turned quickly into something else, something rougher, as he bent his head to kiss Raylan again.

“Well, I know how much you hate to see me cry, darlin’,” Raylan murmured to him after they made out for a minute, deep and long. Raylan was sorely tempted to just take them both in hand and leave a real big tip specifically for the guy who had to clean the pool.

Boyd was about to say something else, when the door to the pool clanged open and another couple walked in, talking quietly, but averting their eyes. Boyd sighed and pulled back, swimming away from him, a little fast and in what Raylan assumed was some kind of particular stroke, maybe trying to work off his hard on. Raylan wasn’t going to be so lucky. He’d rather just go back up to their room and fuck.

Which is what they ended up doing.

They left the pool without changing again, just grabbing their stuff from the other room and practically racing in their towels to the elevator. No one was around so they made out more and pulled at each other hands all the way down the long hall to their room, shucking off their shorts as soon as they walked in.

Boyd got him on the bed quick, taking charge without really asking. He muttered, “Where’d you pack the lube?”

“Bathroom,” Raylan breathed, running a hand through his hair as Boyd climbed off the bed to go get it.

Boyd didn’t say, “can I fuck you,” or “I want to fuck you,” he just did it. Rolling Raylan over on his hands and knees, he only said, “Raylan, I love you.”

He came quicker than usual when they did this, leaving Raylan strung up high and hard, lolling his head down to the mattress and breathing fast and heavy. Boyd rolled him over again onto his back, with gentle but insistent hands, smoothing them slow over his stomach and down his thighs. 

Raylan thought he might have whimpered and he sure as hell moaned when Boyd took him in his mouth.

It didn’t take long, but it was so good, Raylan had fistfulls of Boyd’s hair and he shouted loud enough he worried they’d get a complaint from the rooms next door.

After, they pressed together, savoring the warmth between them until it dissipated and they were left shivering from cold hair and cooling sweat. Raylan smiled into Boyd’s kiss and asked, “Hot tub?”

They had to fiddle around with the buttons for longer than Raylan liked before they could figure out to get it on the right setting, so long in fact Boyd went into the bedroom and came back with two tiny bottles of whiskey and two tumblrs. 

“Did we get mini-bar vouchers too, baby?”

Raylan huffed, smiling. “I really don’t give a shit. Just break ‘em open.”

The water was almost too hot when they slip in, but it felt great and they could both totally fit in the tub, even with their long legs, and cuddle up to each other in the rounded corner, where the jets where pulsing at their backs.

“Fuck, I want a cigarette,” Boyd moaned after a long moment of silence.

He frowned, nearly pouted, when Raylan just laughed at him.

He responded by climbing on Raylan’s lap.

“You think we’re gonna go again?” Raylan asked. “You are sorely mistaken, darlin’.”

“Shut up,” Boyd said softly and Raylan’s smirk disappeared. He cupped Raylan’s face in his hands, but didn’t lean in to kiss him right away. He searched Raylan’s eyes instead, saying nothing, and not looking like anything in particular that Raylan could tell.

“What?”

“You’re okay, Raylan,” he said simply.

Raylan let out a breath. “Yeah, I know,” he replied. “Maybe it was stupid to worry--”

“Don’t say that,” Boyd told him, drawing his thumb across Raylan’s cheek. “It’s normal.” He smiled. “I won’t try to pretend I ain’t worried next time, okay? Will that make you feel better?”

Raylan twisted his mouth a little at that. “Maybe it would if you weren’t also telling me what a great actor you are. Darlin’, I had no idea.”

“I know, I…” Boyd didn’t seem to have any real response to that.

“Just don’t do that anymore, okay?” Raylan pulled his own wet hands out of the water and took Boyd’s face in them, so they mirrored each other.

“Okay,” Boyd said and kissed him. He pulled back after a minute and rested their foreheads together as the water pulsed around them. Raylan thought he might drift off, right then and there, but a moment later Boyd murmured, “You should give that boy a call.”

“Anderson?” Raylan asked, unwilling not to make the joke.

“Baby, you keep bringing that up and I’m just gonna go ahead and start wearing my t-shirts two sizes too small and drop out of school so I can start saving the lives of small Haitian children on the regular, all right?” At Raylan’s incredulous look, Boyd added, “I remember how hard you came after we watched that on the TV downstairs.”

“Fuck off,” Raylan said laughing.

“Anyway, just call him. He was serious about what he was asking you, just too buzzed to do it right. Don’t you want to know how many queers your age are in law enforcement? You don’t have to give them your name to be a statistic, a real important one too, and I know you wouldn’t hesitate to give it to them anyway.” 

Boyd had been running his fingers through Raylan’s hair while he was speaking until Raylan couldn’t hold it up anymore and it fell forward onto Boyd’s shoulder.

“If you say yes, I’ll get off you and we can go to bed,” Boyd murmured and Raylan remembered he hadn’t actually spoken his assent, though the more he talked, the more sense the idea made in his head. Boyd laughed low in Raylan’s ear, “Jesus, you just switched off like a light.”

“Mmm,” Raylan agreed. “Do it when I get back,” he mumbled.

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want you to do it now,” Boyd laughed, pulling him up.

They towelled off quickly and slipped under the covers with no clothes on, pulling each other close, though Raylan barely noticed where he laid his head, he fell asleep so fast.

In the morning, far to early for any sensible person’s taste, Raylan grumbled because he’d completely forgot to call Art to let him know the airline had screwed them and he wouldn’t be in the office that day like he’d planned. Boyd said nothing, probably knowing Raylan didn’t really want him to, and they got their continental breakfast before taking the shuttle back to the airport.

On the plane, where they disappointingly narrowly missed getting wedged into first class, filling in otherwise empty seats, Raylan let himself settle into the story of Inman--trying not to imagine the face of Jude Law, even though he knew that was who was cast in the movie--a Civil War soldier who just wanted to go home.


End file.
